Hair today, gone tomorrow

I went to get my hair cut today. That's usually quite a traumatic experience for me. Over the last three years, I've probably visited about fifteen different barbers/stylists in order to get a cut that I like.

Some places are cheap, others expensive; some places take four hours for a cut, others take seven minutes; some places use only scissors; others use nothing but clippers.

I work in a school and my colleagues regularly comment on the amount of effort I put into making my hair look good. Note: colleagues, not five year olds, before you start getting all smart.

Some would call it vanity. So would I.

I believe that hair says a lot about a person. Hair should look good. Just because it's a load of dead cells protruding from the top of your head, doesn't mean you shouldn't care for it.

Which is why I wash and condition my hair every day. Sometimes twice a day for the sheer hell of it. I live life on the edge.

Then, I spend a good ten minutes getting it to look semi-decent (as long as the cut's done a good job) by manipulating it with a tub of 'Matt Paste', that costs the ridicuously exorbitent amount of £19.99 per tub.

However, today I saw that this excessive amount of effort with my hair could be starting to show. In today's financially astute world, I would liken what I saw today to 'negative equity'.

As the barber pulled the right-hand side of my hair back, I believe I saw a...I can't even bring myself to say it...a receding hairline.

I haven't checked again. I'm too scared.

This could be due to the excessive amount of attention that I pay it. It could be due to age - I'm 29. Almost past it, as many of my younger friends regularly say. The gits.

Either way, I'm worried. I'd rather have the Ebola virus than lose my hair.

To deny the symptoms to myself is the only way that I can live with this condition. So, from now on, I shall only be concentrating on looking at the left hand side of my head of hair.

The right hand side is evil and doesn't deserve any attention whatsoever. Evil, I tell you...

Best Men shouldn't have to write. We're the best.

Best Man speech - written
Originally uploaded by A Simple Man

My best friend's getting married in two weeks. I'm joint best man, with one of his friends from his work-days.

I spent four ruddy hours writing a speech today. I thought the internet would help. It just gave me dodgy jokes that Jim Davidson would have used, circa 1984.

The trouble with using the internet for something like this is that everyone uses it. Therefore, you run the risk of regurgitating a speech that people have heard in drips and drabs at all the weddings that they've ever been to.

I, however, have never been Best Man and this is only the second Christian wedding I'm going to so it's all new to me. Even if I heard jokes from Bobby Davro's stand-up act from 1987, it wouldn't make the blind bit of difference to me as it'd all be fresh material to my ears!

Writing this speech has been difficult as I can't be rude, nor can I mention any of the groom's past 'misdemeanours'. It's like I'm writing for someone who doesn't really exist.

This must be what it's like when you work for a politician.

I'm going to test the water with the speech with colleagues at work this week. I expect quite a few re-writes as even I'm cringing at some of the gags that have been thrown in there, and I wrote the ruddy thing...

Woof

Birthday dogs
Originally uploaded by A Simple Man

Greyhound racing. The sport of the common man. Stale beer. Greasy chips. Chavs.

And a bloody good laugh!

I went to Wimbledon dogs, for the first time, as part of my birthday celebrations. I was joined by other novices and one wannabe John McCririck (blimey, that's tricky to spell) who'd brought along the paper to 'study the odds'.

I, on the other hand, went for the well-thought out route in order to earn my millions - pick the pooch with the best name.

So, my choices ranged from 'Droopys Dalvina' (as it reminded me of an impotent Davina McCall - scientifically impossible, but logic doesn't come into this), through to 'Comans Joe' (it reminded me of the great Schwarzenneger in Conan The Barbarian).

With such a fine system, I ended the night with three wins. Out of eleven races. Left a fiver down. Not quite enough to jack the job in yet.

Next port of call: bingo. Those old biddies clearly know something I don't...